Waiting for the Eastern Glow
by Nympha Alba
Summary: Camelot, then: If Merlin was born to serve Arthur, what will become of him now that Arthur is dead? Now he is only a sorcerer with no use for his magic… London, now: As Merlin tries to ignore the blond bloke with the football, he has no idea that his life is about to change forever – or that he has reason to know better than anyone what "forever" really means. Merlin/Arthur.
1. Dragon of Darkness

**Author's Notes:** This was written for the Merlin Reversebang, where you create stories from art instead of creating art for a story. Thanks, love and all the glomps and chocolate in the world to Matchboximpala for her gorgeous art and Emjayelle for all her help with the story! 3 (Go find Matchboximpala and me, Nympha_Alba, on AO3 to see the art masterpost and the art imbedded in the story.)

Thanks also to Led Zeppelin for the cheesy titles and story/chapter quotes : ) (From their song _Battle of Evermore_.)

 _the beads of time pass slow_  
 _dance in the dark night, waiting for the eastern glow_

CHAPTER 1 – DRAGON OF DARKNESS

 _the sky is filled with good and bad, the mortals never know_

 _ **CAMELOT, THEN**_

There were words and concepts that Merlin wouldn't learn until centuries later, like _static noise_ , or _interference_. For now, as he watched the boat glide out on the mirror-still surface of Lake Avalon, he only knew there was a strange, hissing noise in his ears and something in the air that faintly obscured the view, like falling ash or a snowfall in the middle of summer.

It ought to have been a serene and dignified moment, this farewell to the King of Camelot. Instead, Merlin stood on the lakeshore wanting to sob and rage, kick and scream, or use his magic to make the earth erupt. But it wouldn't help, it wouldn't make him feel better, because it would change nothing. Arthur was dead and with him the Golden Age of Albion, and any hope that Merlin would ever be more to him and to the kingdoms than he had been before. The turning Merlin had waited for all those years would never come to pass – the Camelot where magic would be allowed, accepted, even revered would never come into existence. The Camelot where magic would be used for _good_. And if Merlin had been born to serve Arthur, what would become of him now that Arthur was dead? He was nothing, nothing without his king, only a sorcerer with no use for his magic. A man who hadn't even been true to his word.

 _I swear I'll protect you or die at your side._

In the end he had done neither. Now he could only stand on the lakeshore and watch the swirling mists open up to receive Arthur's body. Deep at the core of Merlin's being, underneath the painful turmoil of his emotions, was the strange, cold sense that everything had come to a halt.

That time had stopped.

x x x

The journey back to Camelot felt endless.

If he'd had a choice he wouldn't have returned at all. In Camelot, everything would remind him of Arthur and what had been, but equally of what could have been, should have been, and _would_ have been if Arthur had only listened or if Merlin had been quicker, braver; _would_ have been if only Morgana hadn't… Merlin stopped himself. There was no use to dwell on _if only_.

So instead here he was, tired to the bone, slowly making his way through the woods back to the place he least wanted to go.

Return he must. He owed it to Gwen to tell her in person what had happened to Arthur, at whatever cost to himself. Telling her the truth would mean revealing his magic, but perhaps that cat was already out of the bag and the news all over Camelot by now. Perhaps he would be met at the gates by an executioner.

Despair sunk in his stomach and seeped into his bones like a chill. It was all the same to him now anyway. He didn't care who knew.

Approached by Saxons on the way, Merlin didn't stop to find out what they wanted, only dispatched them with a flick of his hand and walked on without a twinge of conscience. What did it matter?

Arthur was dead.

x x x

The first time Merlin had seen the towers of Camelot, his heart had skipped. Camelot, the golden city, filled with possibility and promise.

This time, there was no hope in Merlin's heart as he neared the city walls.

But nothing happened. The guards greeted him with nods and smiles, and Merlin returned their greeting, confused.

When he opened the door to the court physician's chambers, Gaius straightened his back from where he'd been working on a potion and swept Merlin into a hug.

"Dear boy," he said. "Did you take Arthur to…?"

Merlin only nodded. There was nothing else to say.

Gaius had made some of his usual, awful soup, but Merlin had no more than sat down and lifted his spoon before a pageboy knocked at the door, out of breath with the importance of his errand. The Queen requested Merlin's presence in the Throne Room.

Merlin's heart beat fast as he stood before her in the vast hall. She looked small but determined, every inch the Queen of Camelot, beautiful in a purple robe stitched with silver and the tiniest of seed pearls, with her hair in intricate braids and a gemstone on her brow. Her eyes were filled with pain.

"Merlin," she said stiffly. "I'm glad you're unharmed. Gaius told me you were taking Arthur to… to where he might be healed, but now you've returned without him. Am I right to think that this means…?"

Her voice broke off as if she couldn't bear to say the words, and Merlin took a deep breath. He didn't know how to say them either, how to get them across his lips and past the pain in his chest, but she had the right to know. The Queen _deserved_ to know the truth, and all of it.

When Merlin had finished his report, her face was streaked with tears.

"Oh, Merlin," she breathed.

Her skirt swept the floor as she ran up to him, and when she threw her arms around his neck she was Gwen again - kind, wise Gwen, Gwen the blacksmith's daughter; Merlin's first friend in Camelot who had remained kind and loyal ever since.

He held her to him, buried his face in her hair, trying to let her strength calm him.

"I know what you did for us, Merlin," she said, "out on the battlefield. I asked Gaius who the sorcerer was. No, he didn't give you away," she added hastily when Merlin started, "he only implied, but I think I already knew. Thank you, Merlin, for everything you have done for us."

Merlin closed his eyes and took a breath before stepping away from her, holding her at arm's length and searching her face. "So, what will you do?"

The smile she gave him was watery and weak. "About you?"

"Yes, about me, about magic. I expected to be met by an executioner when I arrived. I expected gallows in the courtyard. What will you do, Your Majesty? Will you burn me at the stake?"

Gwen didn't even blink.

"Stop it, Merlin," she said, and he wasn't sure whether she meant the use of her title or his questions, or both. "I believe magic users are like everyone else. There are always good and bad people, so why would sorcerers be any different? I know you, Merlin, and you are no more evil than I am. There will be no persecution of magic users in Camelot under my reign, I promise you that." She paused and glanced up at him. "Arthur would not have objected, I think, given time – he started out on that path when he sought peace with the Druids. This is only the next step. If he had known that you have magic…" She stopped herself and swallowed. "Did he, Merlin? Did you tell Arthur?"

Merlin hated crying in front of people but there was no stopping it now. Besides, Gwen was still crying, too, and if grief was not reason enough for them to cry, then what could be? Tears were running down her face and dripping from her chin onto her stately dress.

"Yes," Merlin whispered. "I told him."

"And how… how did he take the news? What did he say?"

Pain sliced through Merlin afresh at the memory. "He wanted me out of his sight." This was harder than anything he'd had to say before. "I should have told him long ago, Gwen. He was frightened, and hurt, and…" Merlin stopped and took a breath. "But in the end, he went with me willingly. He had accepted the truth by then, I think, or at least realised that there was nothing he could do. And along the way to Avalon, when he'd had time to digest it a little, I believe he felt… ashamed. He knew in his heart that I had only ever used my magic for him, to help. To protect."

"Oh, Merlin," Gwen whispered and touched his cheek. Her hand came away wet. "I know you meant the world to Arthur. He depended on you. He was so terribly disappointed when you didn't come with us to Camlann, and he missed you so. But then, one night, the… the last night, he said you spoke to him in his head – he said you told him to send knights to meet Morgana's ambush force. I thought he'd only dreamt, but now I think it must have been true. Was it? Did you talk to him…?

"Yes." Merlin picked up his story again, and this time he left none of the magic out.

When he had finished, Gwen was sobbing into her hands.

Merlin's voice was thick when he said: "The Once and Future King. Arthur will return, Gwen, but I don't know when that will be. Next year, fifty years, a hundred? All I know is that I have to wait for him. However long it takes, I have to wait."

"But what if it does take a hundred years?" Gwen whispered. "Or three hundred?"

The air between them shimmered with ash or snowflakes, distancing them from each other; Merlin enclosed in his own, small space where the atmosphere was different. A bubble. A crystal.

"I have a feeling," he said slowly, "that even if it does take three hundred years, I will still be here."

Gwen gave him a doubtful smile, but he didn't want to tell her what Balinor had said in the Crystal Cave: that Merlin _was_ magic. That Merlin would always be.

x x x

Camelot was empty without Arthur, lifeless and cold, and Merlin knew he couldn't stay. It would drive him mad.

When he went to see Gwen and say goodbye, he knew it didn't come as a surprise to her. She had already seen it in his eyes.

"I had hoped you'd choose to remain in the end," she said quietly, "but I see that you've made your decision. What will you do, Merlin? Where will you go?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. For a time, though, I'll go to Ealdor and stay with my mother."

Gwen's face softened in a smile. "I'm glad to hear that. She will be happy to see you." She reached out for his hand. "But when will _I_ see you again? You _will_ come back, Merlin, won't you?"

That he could promise her. "Wherever I go, whatever I decide to do, I'll come back from time to time to see you and Gaius. And if for some reason you should need me, just take this in your hand and call my name." He pressed a small, clear crystal into her palm, one he had put in his pocket when he'd left the Crystal Cave. "I will come to you with the speed of the wind."

She hugged him then. "Is there anything you need, Merlin, that I can send with you? I mean, I know you will not need a guard of knights for protection, but is there anything else I can give you?"

"Your good thoughts, Gwen. I'd be happy to have those."

There were tears in her eyes. "No need to ask for that, Merlin. You will always have them."

x x x

"Your garden grows well," Merlin said to Hunith as they strolled side by side along the vegetable beds in the soft, still evening. "What about your house? Are you pleased with it?"

The cottage was sturdy with a skilfully thatched roof, built for her as a thank you from Arthur and Gwen. In the orchard, apples were ripening, and the herb garden would have won Gaius's approval.

"How could I not be pleased?" Hunith smiled up at her son. "It was built with love. It's in the structure. I can sense it in the walls." As they sat down on a bench under the large chestnut tree, Hunith asked cautiously: "How is Gwen holding up?"

Merlin looked down at his hands. He was so tired. The exhaustion went too deep to be explained by his journey here. "Very well. Better than I had expected. She is strong and I know she will be a good and just Queen."

"Yes," Hunith says. "Gwen is a good woman. But does she have the support of the court? Of the knights?"

"Whole-heartedly." Merlin closed his eyes for a moment. The strange ash was still dancing before his eyes and his mother's voice seemed to come from far away.

She noticed, of course. "What's the matter, Merlin? Are you unwell?"

"No," he replied, but he was far from sure.

He had forgotten who it was he was talking to.

"Let's get you to bed," said his mother firmly. "Now."

Merlin didn't like trying to sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, his memories shone too brightly, the images were too intense. Arthur golden against the blue sky, laughing; Arthur with hard eyes and set mouth on the battle field. Arthur dying, begging Merlin to hold him. No ash there. No snowflakes. Clear and sharp.

But it was surprisingly good to feel like he was six years old again, good to be steered into the house by his mother's firm hand. Sleep claimed him as soon as he put his head on the pillow.

x x x

Like so often, Merlin dreamed of his father. There was always a wistful quality to these dreams, as if even in his sleep he knew it wasn't real but centered around things past, things lost.

He slept all day and all night, and most of the next day. When he woke, the afternoon light seeped through the fruit tree outside and made trembling, dappled shadows dance over the walls.

After a meal of bread, cheese and an apple, he felt refreshed and ready for what needed to be done.

"Mother, please sit," he said. "There's something I need to ask you."

Hunith turned a wooden bowl upside down over her bread dough and cleaned her hands before she faced Merlin across the table.

"Is it about your father?"

He smiled at her, nodding. She had always seen straight through him and he loved her for it. As a child he had resented it. Now it made things easier.

"Has he ever come back to you?" he asked. "I mean, after… after his death."

She didn't recoil as he had expected her to. Instead, there was a softness around her mouth and in her eyes. "Yes. He came to me when you went to Camlann, and once before that. It's been a comfort to me."

"When I met him in the Crystal Cave," Merlin said, "he told me something strange. He said that I am magic. He said that I will always be, as he will always be."

"Because he is magic just like you are."

Merlin leaned back and closed his eyes. "Kilgharrah said that Arthur will return. That he is the Once and Future King." He opened his eyes again and reached across the table for his mother's hand. "It frightens me, Mother, not knowing. What does it mean, that I will always be? Will I die and live on as a spirit, like my father? Or will I be here as I am now - unable to die?"

Hunith shook her head, biting her lip as she squeezed his hand; her eyes brimming with sympathy. "I don't know, Merlin. I don't know much about these things."

But deep inside, Merlin thought he did know, and only wanted to be contradicted. When Arthur had died in his arms in the sweet-smelling, dew-wet grass, something irreversible had happened to Merlin, too.

x x x

Merlin avoided Camelot for a long time.

The rush in his ears that had begun on the lakeshore had never left him. It was a noise like the whisper of wind in the trees, like the sound of a distant waterfall. The shimmer in the air was a screen between him and the rest of the world.

Constant motion was the only thing that soothed him and he began to wander far and wide. New people, new places, anything and anyone that was not reminiscent of Arthur.

It was a fruitless task.

Over the years, Merlin became a familiar sight all over Albion, both as a young man and as the old, frightening wizard that some remembered seeing against the blood-red sky at Camlann.

People stepped aside to make way for him. Some bowed.

The young Merlin was kind with a quick smile that dimpled his cheeks but did not quite reach his eyes; the old man was gruff and grumpy, impatient with the world. Both kept to themselves. Both carried a staff they never let out of their sight. Both harboured a deep sadness.

x x x

When it became apparent that Merlin did not age, he made his first visit to Camelot since Arthur's death.

Although his mind felt ancient, heavy, cluttered and over-furnished, he was physically unchanged from the last time he'd been there, frozen in time in his mid-twenties unless he chose to alter his form.

It was a strange feeling, entering Gaius's chambers that used to be Merlin's as well. Gaius was very old now, stiff-jointed and unable to move around much. His chambers were more comfortable than Merlin remembered them – made so at Gwen's insistence, he was told.

In the afternoon light, Merlin sat opposite Gaius by the window in his own old room, which now served as Gaius's bedroom. He placed his forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward to meet Gaius's watery eyes.

"I don't age," he said quietly. "It's like I suspected, like I said to you all those years ago. I'm trapped. Trapped in time."

Gaius sat back against the cushions in his high-backed chair, his old hands like claws on the armrests and his voice cracked, weak with age. "So are we all," he replied, "so are we all in a way. We are forced to go forward, forced toward our death. But you are trapped in a different way."

"Yes," said Merlin bitterly, "I'm doomed to be different, always. I feel old and tired, Gaius. An old man's soul trapped in a young man's body."

Gaius's laugh was a cackle. "Many would envy you that, my boy! They would give anything to have what you have. Most of us suffer the opposite fate – in our minds we still feel young, but we are trapped in an ageing body that plays us painful tricks and won't do our bidding."

"I don't know which is worse," Merlin murmured.

"I do," said Gaius, who was very serious now, with something like sympathy in his eyes. "When death comes for me, which will be soon, I will welcome it. I am tired to the bone. If it is as you believe, Merlin, that escape is not open to you."

"I'm sure I'm right," Merlin whispered. "I'm sure that's how it is. I will not die, not when I've lived the lifetime of a man and possibly never. Death, or the certainty of it, is what brings meaning to people's lives, isn't it? There is a definite end – let's live while it lasts, it will be over all too soon... So what about me then, Gaius? What is the meaning of _my_ life? What can I do to bring meaning to it? I can't live like this."

They sat a while listening to the rain. It was spring and all the buds were ready to burst open and bloom, the birds were singing and the air was heady with the scent of early blossoms. Only Merlin felt old and wizened, older in heart than the man before him.

At long last, Gaius said: "Arthur. That is the only way I can see it. Arthur is the reason you are trapped in time, and his return must be the meaning."

Merlin closed his eyes. "But how long will that be, Gaius? I can stand it for a hundred years, perhaps. But what if it takes five hundred? Six?" He did not add: What if it never happens?

Gaius reached out to pat Merlin's knee; it seemed to take an effort. "I don't know, my boy. I don't know. But the Great Dragon said that Arthur would return, and hasn't he been right before?"

Merlin had to nod, because what Kilgharrah said usually did come to pass, if not always in the expected way. Perhaps he had not meant that Arthur would actually physically return. Perhaps it had been a metaphor, a symbol like the two sides of a coin. Perhaps Arthur would never return at all, and then what would become of Merlin?

x x x

The only time Queen Guinevere used Merlin's crystal was when Sir Leon disappeared.

"He left me a note," she told Merlin shakily, "saying he needed to leave to try to find out what is happening."

"Have you any idea what he may have referred to?" Merlin asked, watching tears tremble in her eyelashes and wondering how much Leon really meant to her.

"None."

"Are there border problems? Uprisings? Rumours of attack?"

Gwen shook her head and swallowed a sob. "No, nothing."

Merlin reached for her hand. "I will try to find him."

"Thank you, Merlin – if you can't find him, then no one will."

But Merlin never found Leon and did not hear so much as a rumour of his whereabouts.

x x x

One by one Merlin began to lose them, all the ones dear to him: Gaius, his mother, the knights.

Queen Guinevere's reign had been long and peaceful and her aged face was still beautiful in death, her white hair strewn with diamonds and her hands folded over her chest. She was the last, and the grief was too bitter for Merlin even to cry.

He remembered them all and would never forget: Will and Freya. Lancelot, Elyan and Gwaine. He remembered their faces and their voices, the way they had laughed, the way they had died. He remembered how the sword had felt in his hand, the resistance as it pierced Morgana's body. His hand recoiled at the memory, seeking the warmth inside Merlin's coat, at his chest. He remembered, oh, he remembered, the weight of Arthur lying wounded in his arms, the chill of the armour. He remembered the emptiness in his heart as the boat carried Arthur across the water, the moment when the mist descended and the constant hum began.

Watching Gwen's dead face truly brought it home – that this was what Merlin's life would be like. People would come and go, time would flow and they would move with it, and Merlin alone would stand still. He would meet new people and perhaps learn to love them, but they would only exist for a short, finite period of time and then leave him lonelier than before, a very old man trapped by time and magic in a physically unchanged, cruelly young body.

Arthur would rise again when Albion needed him. It was of little matter, because Merlin needed him now, had needed him then, would need him always.

x x x

Merlin dreamt of Arthur's face. He saw the familiar teasing grin, the grim determination on the battlefield and the rare, affectionate smile, but above all he saw Arthur's face in those very last hours; his lips pale as death began to claim him, his blue eyes clouded with pain. In the dream Merlin reversed the series of events, made Arthur jump aside so Mordred's sword only cut through air. He stopped Arthur going to Camlann; he rewound time and revealed his magic to Arthur at the beginning of the good years, and stood by Arthur's side to unite the land, changing history and fate.

When Merlin woke up with his face itching with tears, Arthur's voice rang like a faint echo in his head:

 _I want you to always be you._

Yes, he was still Merlin. He would always be Merlin.

Always was a cruel word.

x x x

Constant travelling did not only quell Merlin's boredom but was prompted by necessity as well. If he stayed too long in one place, people would notice.

Sometimes he turned himself into the old, white-bearded Merlin so his body would reflect his mind, for the satisfaction of feeling his bones creak and his steps slow. A kind of balance.

From time to time he used his magic, but the events of the world overwhelmed him. He could not change history, could not influence the way things evolved. Politics and wars were too complex and vast, and magical solutions only temporary. The best way to use his magic was to make a difference for one person, one situation at a time.

With Arthur absent, this was the only meaning that Merlin had been able to find.

Sometimes he lay awake at night and remembered how he had loved Arthur, a love that went well above and beyond the feelings of a trusted servant for his king. Now and then a look in Arthur's eyes had made Merlin believe that his feelings were requited, but neither of them had ever let on, never acted on the impulse.

The most intimate moments had been after a long day riding or training with the knights, when Merlin had had Arthur's bath ready and Arthur had allowed Merlin to wash him. Merlin had pushed the sleeves of his tunic above his elbows as he'd watched firelight flicker over Arthur's pale skin. As Arthur undressed, Merlin had taken garment after garment and placed them in a neat pile, and when Arthur had got into the tub Merlin had rubbed the wet washcloth gently over Arthur's shoulders and back, and then around to his chest and stomach. They had never spoken in those moments, but Merlin would never forget how his lips had almost, _almost_ touched the back of Arthur's neck, or how he had held his breath as Arthur had taken the cloth to see to his intimate parts himself, while Merlin had turned his back and closed his eyes, pushing away his desire.

x x x

Time taught Merlin how history was written.

Details were forgotten or blown out of proportion, facts were twisted until barely recognisable. He experienced the absurdity of becoming a legend, a character in a story that everyone knew and told, while he wandered around unrecognised. Arthur and Guinevere, Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawaine – the stories had a core of truth swathed in gauzy layers of fiction, and Merlin could tell that truth to no one. Who would believe him?

 _My name is Merlin – yes, that Merlin. I am six hundred years old._ _Would you like to hear about King Arthur?_

No, that story was at an end or at least put on hold, the story of the sorcerer and the king and their unlikely friendship, of a love that was the only thing keeping Merlin from going insane. Sometimes he raged at the injustice of it all, but mostly he was resigned, because what was there to do? He was even denied death as an escape.

x x x

Once a year, Merlin paid a visit to Avalon.

The isle was a hill now, resting in a sea of grass. There was no water still as glass, no waves, only grass rippled by the wind. Merlin never looked straight at the hill. He couldn't. He walked past and stopped for a second the moment he could see it out of the corner of his eye.

But this time, there was something different about it. He sensed something new - something that made him stop dead.

He took a deep, steadying breath and turned to face the hill full on. As always, it lay half hidden in a dreamlike mist, but Merlin could feel Arthur's presence. It was faint but definitely there, the sense that Arthur lay _sleeping_.

The visits were easier after that - and harder, too, because of the wild hope in Merlin's heart. Perhaps one day, Arthur would sense Merlin's presence too, open his eyes and draw a breath, and return to the world.

x x x

The twentieth century brought many marvels but magic was long since dead, only to be spoken of in fairytales. Merlin felt like a relic of a bygone age, the only rock in the fast-flowing river of time.

By now he had learned of static noise and interference and knew how to describe the noise in his head and the falling ash that still danced before his eyes, obscured his view and never, ever left.

x x x

It was the mid-1980s when Merlin, old and bearded with long white hair under his wool hat, rented a flat in Lewisham and befriended his upstairs neighbour Emily because she reminded him of Gwen. He was tired, so tired of being lonely, and Emily's kindness to an old man warmed his dried-up, shrivelled heart. From time to time through the centuries he had allowed himself lovers, but had always had to leave before they noticed that he wasn't ageing, and always with the absurd, grating sense that he was unfaithful to Arthur. He knew he would never be able to love anyone the way he had loved Arthur, the way he still loved Arthur even after a thousand years.

For years, for centuries, he had avoided thinking about it, had pushed it away and created watertight compartments in his mind to stay sane, but his love for Arthur was the reason he had never allowed himself to be deeply involved with anyone. When someone fell in love with him, which happened from time to time, he ran from them. It was too painful; he couldn't respond. Only twice had he loved someone back, as much as he was ever capable of loving anyone who wasn't Arthur. Both of them had been men, both of them blond and handsome.

Emily had only met Merlin as an old man and regarded him as a grandfather. There was no risk of her falling in love with him, and he allowed her closer than he had anyone for a very long time. She seemed to enjoy his company, invited him for tea or a meal and came to cry on his shoulder when she had boyfriend troubles. Once she even took him to a comedy at the cinema and beamed when he laughed. Her kindness did him good.

Only once had he been sharp with her; the time when she had touched the oddly shaped crystal he kept in the kitchen window where it caught the sunlight and made it dance. She had backed away with a hurt look in her eyes, but the crystal was his only prized possession, the one thing he had left from back then, from the time when his life had still been a life, when it had been _real_.

When magic had begun to forsake the world entirely, Merlin had made one last visit to the Crystal Cave. Sooner rather than later it would disappear – cities were expanding and devouring rural land everywhere. He had allowed himself to wallow in the past and weep over Arthur, but had also tried to see the future. What he had seen he had not understood, a world so foreign he could not grasp it. He had taken one single crystal and put it in his pocket, and carried it with him through the years. Not even Emily could be allowed to touch it.

Sometimes - not often - he took it in his hand and saw the familiar images flash past. The world he had found so strange in the cave wasn't strange any more. It was the world he saw around him every day.

One summer evening when the sun hung low in the sky, setting the windows ablaze on the building across the street, Merlin made a pot of tea in his kitchen. Emily would be down in a few minutes, bringing biscuits. He used the electric kettle. He had nearly forgotten how to heat water with magic.

As he put the tea cosy (knitted by Emily) over the pot, he was seized by the strangest sensation. A premonition, perhaps, or a warning; an intake of breath before a shout, before a song at the top of his voice. The buzz and hum in his body ceased as abruptly as if he had flipped a switch. Everything in and around him was absolutely serene and still. The static noise vanished and made the world unfathomably clear; every little sound appeared clean-edged and sharp.

And time began to move.

At first it was only a trickle, as if an hourglass had been turned and the sands begun to flow, but it turned to a rush like a waterfall. All the centuries Merlin had lived, his millennium of staying a rock in a rapid river, broke their confines and cascaded through his poor body, his fragile human form. Catching up.

If he thought anything at all, it was _at last_. When the kitchen tilted sideways and the floor rose up to hit his face there was no fear or pain, only a sense of jubilant relief before he plunged into dark and light, into nothingness, soaring weightless in the void.

x x x

When Mr Emrys failed to open the door and didn't answer his phone, Emily called the landlord who unlocked the door. A pot of freshly brewed tea was still warm on the counter, but Mr Emrys himself was nowhere to be seen. A terrible sense of dread burrowed at the pit of Emily's stomach. When she spotted the red and green tea cosy in the shape of a tomato, she began to cry, and when the old man still hadn't turned up the next day, the landlord called the police.

Mr Emrys was never found.


	2. Angels of Avalon

CHAPTER 2 – ANGELS OF AVALON

 _the apples of the valley hold the seeds of happiness_

 _ **LONDON, NOW**_

On the vernal equinox of 1986, Merlin Emrys was born in a small village in Wales to a mother who loved him fiercely. Who his father was he didn't know, and neither did anyone else but his mother.

Merlin knew up a sunny child, slight of frame with bright blue eyes under a shock of black hair. There was nothing very remarkable about his childhood and teens. He did well at school, made friends easily enough and had a boyfriend for a few months when he was seventeen. At university he took History and English. Early and Middle English in particular interested him – more than interested him; they came easily to him and seemed to resonate deep within him. He made some attempts at dating and began to wonder whether there was something seriously wrong with him, because he never fell in love.

He was always haunted by dreams, almost nightmares. They were becoming more frequent and more intense, always the same ones. In them he could do magic. When he was younger he had attributed them to too much Harry Potter, but they felt far too real to be the product of reading a book. It wasn't just the magic, either. In his dreams, Merlin was aware of some great, undefined tragedy that had created an abyss of sorrow and grief within him, grief of a kind he had never experienced in his waking life. He woke up with tears on his face and a longing in his heart for something he did not know.

After Merlin had graduated from university, he floundered a little. Before, there had been concrete goals to work toward, exams to sit, reports to write, and an end date. Now there was freedom, and with it a lack of purpose. It wasn't a bad feeling, he was only unaccustomed to it, and it didn't worry him as it seemed to do his mother. He had a feeling that something was waiting for him, and given time, it would reveal itself.

Merlin's mother, however, didn't want to wait for anything that vague.

"I've talked to Uncle Gaius," she said over dinner one evening. "About a job."

For a moment Merlin thought the job was for her and was about to open his mouth and congratulate her, when she continued:

"He needs someone to help in the shop, and he'd even give you a place to stay. The tenant of the top floor flat just moved out. You can have that if you want."

As Merlin had no plans for his immediate future anyway, he saw no reason not to accept. He liked his great-uncle Gaius very much and it would be fun to go and live in London. Perhaps a change of scene would make it easier to find out what he wanted to do with his life.

Gaius's shop occupied the basement and ground floor of his Georgian house, while the two floors above had been converted into flats. He lived in one himself and let the one on the top floor. The shop sold used books, some of them rare and very old. The well-stocked section on plants, herbs and herbal remedies attracted customers not only from London but from all over the country and even Europe.

"I've nagged Gaius to start a web shop for ages," Merlin said. "He should sell books online. Maybe I can help him with that."

His mother seemed pleased and really, that was as good a reason as any to do it.

x x x

Merlin arrived in London with his rucksack and an ancient, battered suitcase. He'd never been inside Gaius's top floor flat before but liked it immediately, and felt that it liked him, too. The living-room faced the lively but not too noisy street, and beyond the buildings on the other side of the street he could see the treetops of the nearby park. His bedroom looked out over the tiny but pretty back garden that held a robinia, a herb patch and a variety of climbing roses and clematis. Merlin remembered it well from when he was a child.

It was a good thing he'd come to London, he decided. Gaius was pleased to have him, and it was nice to make someone happy, make a real difference. He helped with various things that Gaius was getting too old to do, like carrying heavy boxes and climbing on ladders to reach the top shelves. Once he'd got Gaius to agree to the website, he worked on that. Sometimes he shared Gaius's evening meal, but in general, Gaius was very good at letting Merlin live his own life.

Once a week Merlin's mother called to ask how he was doing and tut about his lack of purpose in life, but he shrugged it off with a smile. He was content for now, even with the ever-present emptiness at his core. He was so used to it. Sometimes he wondered if it was connected to his dreams, although he didn't see how. And whatever it was that was missing, he was strangely convinced it would come to him in time. He'd just have to be patient.

The park that Merlin glimpsed from his living room was lush and well-kept, frequented by joggers, mothers with prams and young couples who lay on blankets in the sun or kissed under the trees. Summer was coming to an end and the evenings were getting shorter, but it was still balmy and Merlin liked to take a book to the park after work, take off his shoes and socks and bury his toes in the cool grass.

One warm evening when the sun hung low in the sky, painting everything in gold, he sat on a bench reading as a group of young men came into the park with a football and began to play on the lawn. Merlin wasn't very interested in football, but something about the group drew his attention and he began to watch them over the top of his book. They looked about his own age or perhaps a little older, and Merlin felt drawn to their obvious sense of camaraderie, their warmth.

One of them in particular caught his eye, blond and good-looking in a red t-shirt. Merlin allowed his gaze to linger while the blond guy shouted and laughed, raising his fists into the air in triumph when he scored a goal, which was often. He seemed to be the natural leader of the group, the one that everyone turned to, and the best player.

After an hour, they packed up their things and left. Merlin's eyes followed the blond guy who walked easily, loosely, carrying the football in the crook of his arm. There was nothing extraordinary about him, nothing that should have made Merlin's heart beat faster, and still it did.

He made a mental note of Wednesday, seven pm; hoping the football game was a regular thing.

Next Wednesday at seven Merlin settled on the same bench under the same tree but with a different book, feeling unaccountably nervous. The lawn was empty apart from a couple of teenage girls who sat under a tree at the edge of it, with their backs to the trunk. Merlin took off his shoes and curled his toes into the grass. At ten past seven, two men from the group arrived, followed by the rest of them a few minutes later. Merlin's breath caught when he spotted the blond guy, who was wearing blue today and had a paper cup from a coffee chain in his hand. When he threw his head back to drain every last drop from the cup, the setting sun touched his hair and turned it to gold, and Merlin watched the arc of his throat, mesmerised.

It was impossible to focus on reading after that, and Merlin only pretended while not very subtly watching the group as they played. Twice he returned the ball to them when it escaped in his direction, and when the blond guy shouted thanks, Merlin felt his face heat and a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. By the time they left and the blond bloke raised his hand in goodbye, Merlin had only skimmed a page and didn't remember a word.

All week, he was so distracted that Gaius shook his head and muttered about scatterbrained youths, and when Merlin's mother called, she diagnosed him in two minutes flat.

"You sound like you're sitting there staring into space with a smile on your face. Are you in love?"

Was he? He had never fallen in love before and surely wouldn't now, not with someone he'd seen twice and never talked to.

When Wednesday came around it was cloudy but mild, and Merlin put on a hoodie before he left for the park. The football game was already under way when he reached his bench, and this time he sat down without even bothering to take the book out of his pocket. The blond bloke was there in a red running jacket, his hair already darkened with sweat at the temples and the back of his neck –

 _ **CAMELOT**_

Time ground to a halt.

All Merlin could hear was the sound of his own breathing as the image of blond, sweat-soaked hair seemed to magnify in his mind, broadening to take in other details. There were lances and shields and bright red cloaks, linen tunics and fluttering silk ribbons, horses galloping and an audience cheering as Arthur tiredly removed his helmet –

 _Arthur._

Time began to flow again, rushing madly, and Merlin was free-falling into himself in a vortex of memory and emotion. He _remembered_.

He remembered the towers of Camelot and himself when he'd been Merlin, _the_ Merlin. He remembered Arthur's court and the round table, remembered Arthur with his straw-blond hair and teasing smile, and his commanding voice in battle. He remembered all the years he had served the king, all the years of hiding who he truly was… he remembered _his magic_.

One image replaced another with dizzying speed and clarity. Arthur's pale face on the awful journey to Avalon. Morgana's body at Merlin's feet. Kilgharrah's prophecy. Merlin wandering the world, his visits to Avalon and the centuries of loneliness and longing.

A million broken pieces were forged back together, a thousand frayed threads woven together, strange shapes finding their counterparts and slotting back into each other to form a whole, connecting the Merlin of then to who he was here, now, today.

 _ **LONDON**_

When he came to, he was lying in the grass looking up at the clear evening sky, and Arthur was leaning over him with an alarmed look in his eyes, his familiar blue eyes. It took Merlin a moment to realise that the weight on his chest was Arthur's hand.

"Oh, thank god," Arthur muttered when he saw that Merlin was awake, and added, louder: "Can you hear me?"

Everything was strange, clearer than before, closer, more immediate, with sharper outlines. Merlin wanted to reach up and pull Arthur down to him, hug him and hold him to make sure he was real, feel their hearts beat against each other to tell him that they were both real. A tear freed itself from the corner of his right eye and ran down his temple into his hair.

"Are you hurt?" Arthur persisted. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"No," Merlin managed and sat up, still dizzy and shocked from rushing through a lifetime in seconds, trying to reconcile the Arthur before him with the images in his mind. "No. No, I'm fine."

His voice seemed to come from far away.

Arthur wouldn't let him off that easily. "What happened? Did you pass out?"

"Yeah, I… yeah, must have."

The others were standing grouped together on the lawn, throwing worried looks in Arthur and Merlin's direction. Embarrassed, Merlin let Arthur take him by the arm and help him up, making a face as he began to brush grass from his clothes.

"I'm okay, I promise. Sorry I frightened you."

"Is this something that happens to you, then?" Arthur eyed Merlin dubiously. "Wait, there's grass in your hair, I'll just …"

Merlin managed not to flinch as Arthur's fingers softly pushed through his hair, and resisted an urge to close his eyes at the touch. He couldn't bear to take his eyes off Arthur, who, Merlin realised, was asking something.

"Do you live nearby?"

"Uh, what? Yes." Could he be more incoherent? "Just over there." Merlin pointed across the park like a five year old.

"I'd better get you home," Arthur said.

"No, really, there's no need to..." Merlin's lame protest died out, because he did want Arthur to walk him home, stay by his side and never leave again.

"Come on, let's get you home," Arthur said in a tone Merlin knew so well that he wanted to laugh or cry, or both. "I'm Arthur, by the way; Arthur Pendragon."

As if he didn't know.

"I'm Merlin," he replied a little shyly. It felt strange to introduce himself to someone who knew him – who had known him – so well. "Merlin Emrys."

Arthur's eyebrows went up, and he laughed. "Merlin? Really?" He called to his friends: "I'm seeing Merlin home, back in a bit!" Still grinning, he said almost to himself: "Arthur and Merlin! What are the odds for that?"

"Not great, I suppose," said Merlin weakly.

But however bad the odds were, it was happening. Arthur had returned, Merlin had found him, and all his memories too. His history – _their_ history. No wonder there had been an empty space inside him, a hollow feeling at the core of his being! He'd been missing a thousand years.

As they walked together through the park, happiness began to catch up to Merlin and he couldn't hold back a smile. He was intensely aware of Arthur by his side, almost shoulder to shoulder; the dizzying anticipation and pure joy that they were here, alive, together.

When they reached Gaius's house, Merlin stopped and gestured towards the shop window.

"Well, this is where I live. I mean – not in the shop, obviously. My great-uncle owns it, I work there and I live in the top floor flat."

Too much information? Creepy? It was hard to know what to say, how much. He had an unfair advantage. He knew who Arthur was, who they both were, and Arthur remembered nothing.

Arthur glanced up at the building and then at Merlin. "Do you live with someone? Or is there someone you could call? If it happens again, I mean."

Arthur was softer than he used to be in Camelot, Merlin thought. Warmer. Edges smoothed out. But even back then, he had truly cared about people. A memory struck Merlin so vividly he repressed a shudder; the memory of Arthur risking his life to bring Merlin the only thing that could save him: a flower.

"I'll be fine," he said shakily.

He wanted to grab Arthur by the arm and not let go; didn't want to let Arthur out of his sight again now that he'd found him.

Arthur seemed to want to say something without knowing how. He made a couple of false starts and settled for: "Look, I'm sorry if this sounds all kinds of wrong, but… I'll give you my number. You know, just in case you... you need anything."

He was a little pink over the cheekbones, and Merlin grinned, wanting to shove Arthur's shoulder with his own as he'd done so many times back in Camelot.

 _Back in Camelot._ The words were like a dream.

It was easier to breathe when they had exchanged numbers. Arthur was no longer out of reach; Merlin knew how to find him if he _needed anything_.

He grinned to himself as he took the stairs in a few gigantic leaps, feeling that he, like the cow in the nursery rhyme, could jump over the moon. Absent-mindedly he went to the kitchen to get something to eat. It felt absurd, pottering about in his flat while the memories of ancient times flickered in his mind. Reliving Camlann as he made toast.

Remembering all the long years after, the grief that was been powerful enough to bleed through to his current life, into his dreams and his heart.

Now that Arthur had returned, Kilgharrah's words echoed at the back of Merlin's mind. _When Albion's need is greatest …_ Unhelpful as ever, Kilgharrah.

Still chewing his toast, Merlin went into the living room and stretched out a hand towards the tea light on the table.

" _Forbearnan._ "

A small flame appeared obediently and began to flicker, and Merlin sank down on the sofa, staring at it. Had he had magic all this time without knowing, or had it returned now, today, once he'd remembered? It felt wonderfully familiar and completely natural, golden and warm, strong and exciting. Perhaps it had been dormant for the twenty-three years of his current life, like a talent for something he had yet to try.

Merlin's dreams were quiet and calm that night, soothing, healing. He had found what he'd been missing.

x x x

Gaius stared at the jumble of books on the floor and sighed.

"Really, Merlin!" He gave his great-nephew a disapproving look above the rim of his glasses. "What's the matter with you today?"

 _You_ try to unpack books neatly when your head is filled with swordfights and glorious kings, Merlin thought. "Sorry, Gaius. I'll go and… work on the website, perhaps?"

" _No_ ," said Gaius. "I forbid you to do any work on the website today. God knows what kind of havoc you'll wreak with that. Stay with the books."

When he turned his back, Merlin sighed and quickly put the books in order with magic. It was coming back to him fast, all the old spells, the familiar buzz in his veins, in his hands and eyes. But the most distracting thing of all was Arthur's number stored in Merlin's phone, burning his pocket. What was a decent amount of time to wait before he called? Would he have to wait until next week, and how could he possibly stand it if he had to?

In his previous life he had waited for centuries. Now that Arthur was back, a week was too much.

x x x

But Merlin didn't have to wait a week. The next day, as he was standing on a ladder wielding a rainbow-coloured feather duster, the door opened so violently that the bell above it sounded shrill and frightened.

"Merlin!"

The duster fell on the other side of the bookcase and Merlin scrambled down the ladder so fast he scraped his shin. He knew that voice.

Arthur let the door fall closed behind him and stood looking around frantically. His hair was on end and his eyes were wild, but there was a look in them that made Merlin's breath catch.

It was the look of recognition.

Arthur started when he saw Merlin, and repeated his name, urgently.

Tears began to ache somewhere behind Merlin's nose. He had waited a thousand years for this moment.

"Yes," he managed.

"You really are … _Merlin_."

They looked at one another for what felt like an eternity – and Merlin knew like no one else what that felt like. His heart was loud in his ears. Without taking his eyes off Arthur's face, he called into the shop: "Gaius, I'm taking half an hour!"

A muffled reply reached them from deep within the maze of bookshelves: "Go, go, my boy."

"Come," Merlin said to Arthur, taking him by the wrist.

Half blindly, they stumbled up the stairs to Merlin's flat and stopped in the tiny hall, panting. Merlin's hand was still closed around Arthur's wrist but looser now, gentler. Arthur didn't seem to notice. His eyes were on Merlin's.

"You remember too," he said.

"Yes."

"How long? For me, it only began to come back last night, and I had to get up and go for a walk. I walked all night. I needed to see you, but what if you didn't have a clue what I was talking about? What if you thought I was a complete nutter?"

"What's there to say I don't think so now?"

They looked at each other, wide-eyed, before they both laughed, and Arthur pulled Merlin into a hug. They clung to each other as if they were drowning, held each other so tightly it was hard to breathe. Arthur's body was strong and warm against Merlin's own, Arthur's arms hard around him, and Merlin squeezed his eyes closed and felt wetness on his lashes. It was like a dream, the dream of centuries; he couldn't believe it was happening at last.

"When did you begin to remember?" Arthur asked when they had caught their breath and moved to the living-room sofa. "Or did you always?"

It was hard to know where to start. "That day when you followed me home," Merlin said, "I fell off the bench because it suddenly came back to me. All the memories at once. Of Camelot, of Camlann, of you… and what happened after. It was so powerful I must have passed out for a moment."

Sounds from the outside world came floating in through the half-open window – cars, music, the Doppler effect of a siren – but they felt alien, inconsequential. In the quiet that followed the wailing siren, Arthur said:

"I died in your arms."

Merlin inhaled through his nose, choking on the memory. How was it possible to remember it so clearly still? But it was one of the defining events of Merlin's life, certainly the most awful. The terrible journey to Avalon. The weight of Arthur's head in Merlin's hands. The realisation that it was too late and he shouldn't have waited so long to demand Kilgharrah's help.

He was still trying to figure out what to say when Arthur added: "And then? What happened then? We were in the field and you… you held me. Because I asked you to."

Merlin nodded, swallowed, wanted to reach out for Arthur but didn't dare. Instead he took a deep breath and told Arthur about Lake Avalon, where they had been headed all along, and about Kilgharrah. He told him about the boat, about sending it across the water to the isle.

Arthur didn't make any comment through Merlin's tale, but his eyes went wide at the mention of the dragon, and when Merlin had finished, Arthur leaned back with an exasperated laugh.

"Isn't it just my luck? The one time I get to travel by dragon, I'm _dead_."

Merlin laughed, too; a laugh that could have been a sob.

It was the strangest thing sitting here, remembering so vividly who they had been and everything they'd been through together, while still being the people they were today, here, now.

"And then?" Arthur asked again, his eyes soft. "What did you do?"

Merlin leaned back and smiled weakly. "You mean for the next millennium?"

It took a while to explain. The half-hour he'd told Gaius he would take had turned into an hour and more before he had finished.

"I didn't think it would happen like this," Merlin said. "You coming back, I mean. There was something my father had said to me… that I _would_ _always be_ , just like he would always be. I imagined I'd live on and on, and you would return the same person you were then, just step into the here and now and come find me."

Arthur looked thoughtful, pinching his bottom lip. "And instead I was born a baby."

"Arthur, when _were_ you born?"

"The twenty-first of March, 1986."

Merlin had begun to suspect as much. "That was the day I died. Or – I don't think I _died_ as much as took on a new form."

"Will everyone be coming back?" Arthur asked, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. "Is your mother the same as back then, for instance? My father happens to be named Uther but he isn't my father of then."

"My mother isn't the same person either," Merlin said, but he was fairly sure his father was. _As I will always be._ "What about… Morgana?"

It was still difficult to say her name. He had hated and pitied what she had become, what he had helped making her. And then he had killed her.

Arthur only shook his head. "So there's just us."

"And Gaius."

When Arthur threw his head back and laughed, Merlin's hands trembled so much he had to tuck them beneath his thighs. If he hadn't been convinced of the reality of all of this before, he was now. He had watched Arthur laugh like that so many times. He couldn't help himself – his eyes caressed the arc of Arthur's throat, the underside of his jaw.

"Gaius. Of course," Arthur said, still grinning. "The Once and Future court physician."

It took them a minute to stop giggling.

"I'm still puzzled," Merlin said. "I don't understand why I had to be born anew. You - maybe I can understand that. You had died. But I do appreciate it, whatever the reason," he added. "I was getting very tired."

Arthur's eyebrow went up. "I'd imagine. But perhaps we had to… I don't know. We were from a different age. Perhaps, to really understand the times we're in, we had to grow up in them."

Merlin nodded slowly. It was as good a theory as any he could come up with, anyway.

"I'm really sorry," he said, "but I need to get back to work. Gaius will be wondering what's happened to me."

"Does he remember, do you think?" Arthur asked slowly, but Merlin had never seen any signs of it.

When they got up from the sofa, Arthur took Merlin's wrist, just as Merlin had done with him before. "Wait. Now that we've… found each other, I don't want to… There's so much we need to talk about. I have a stupid business dinner to go to tonight, but could we meet up tomorrow?"

It was one of the hardest things Merlin had ever done, refraining from kissing Arthur there and then.

"I work until noon," he said. "Come by the shop then."

x x x

As they left the shop the next day and began to walk along the pavement in the September sun, Arthur glanced at Merlin out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you still have magic?"

Merlin had been wondering when that question would come. He pulled Arthur around the corner and into a small cul-de-sac by the sleeve of his jacket and looked around to see if anyone saw. Then he held out his hand, palm up, and closed his fist. When he opened it again a startled sparrow sat in his palm, gave a panicked chirp and flew away unsteadily.

"Yeah, I seem to," he said quietly. "But I didn't know that until a few days ago, when I got my memories back. My old me."

"People say magic is dead. No one believes in magic any more."

"Perhaps they're like me," Merlin said. "There is still magic. The world has only forgotten."

"Maybe it's time to wake them up. Make them remember."

They walked in silence until Arthur stopped and nodded across the street. "That pub over there's pretty nice. Fancy a drink?"

"Trying to chat me up?"

"I don't need to," Arthur said confidently, slinging an arm around Merlin's shoulders and pulling him off the pavement. "I already have you."

While Merlin was still thinking of a reply to that when something happened that made him stop dead in his tracks. A few steps away from them, on the pavement outside the pub, a tall man stood staring at them as if he'd seen a ghost – or two. Merlin drew a breath and his hand went to Arthur's arm.

"Arthur."

Beside him, Arthur stilled. "I see him too."

When the man saw them recognise him he came up to them slowly, incredulously. "Arthur! Merlin? I … I can't …"

"Hello, Leon," said Arthur quietly.

People were jostling around them but they formed a small isle of stillness in the bustling street.

At long last, when the shock wore off, Merlin felt his face soften into a smile. He had always liked Leon very much.

Arthur straightened up, too, and nodded towards the pub. "Let's go inside. I think we have a few things to talk about."

Inside the door, Arthur stopped and laughed, pointing to a corner table. "Well, we _have_ to sit there."

The table was round.

When they grinned at each other, Merlin was flooded with warmth.

"And the drinks are most definitely on me," Arthur added. "What'll you have?"

They shared a plate of chips with their pints and their stories, and Leon smiled with sadness in his eyes. Like Merlin, he had continued to live through the centuries, but he hadn't had the relief of dying and starting over. His life had gone on and on, unchanged.

"When they made me drink from the Cup of Life," he said, "I had no idea I'd be condemned to a life without end. Perhaps it was a punishment, a curse. That's how it feels. But to be with you, here… I'd never have guessed, never hoped…" He swallowed and looked down in his beer.

"I wish I'd known," Merlin said. "I tried to find you after you'd left Camelot. All that endless time… Our lives would have been a little easier, perhaps, if we had known about each other."

Leon looked up. "But just think," he said, "how fed up with each other we'd be after a thousand years."

It felt good to laugh.

"So why are we here now?" Arthur asked. "What are we meant to do?"

They looked at each other.

"Well," Merlin said, "that is the question."

x x x

Arthur repeated the question hours later as they said goodbye to Leon (until tomorrow) and began to walk back towards Merlin's flat, but Merlin didn't want to talk about that right now. While they'd sat in the pub, their thighs touching under the small, makeshift round table, he had decided he didn't want to wait any longer. He was done waiting. It was time to be brave, time to live here and now.

Perhaps Arthur felt some of this, because he didn't persist. It seemed that his own thoughts had been wandering in the same direction as Merlin's, because when the door to Merlin's flat closed behind them and they stood in the tiny, darkish hall, his hand cupped Merlin's elbow and his eyes sought Merlin's.

"I'm really sorry if I've got this wrong, Merlin, but … I'd like to kiss you."

Merlin's heart began to hammer and for a moment it was impossible to speak, so he only nodded. Arthur's face was so close.

"It's not as if I've never wanted to before," Arthur murmured, his eyes on Merlin's mouth now.

"I know," Merlin breathed, his lips tingling under Arthur's gaze. "God, me too. But this is a better time for it than… then. A better time and place."

"An excellent time and place."

Arthur's mouth was warm and wet and tasted of the last ale he'd had at the pub and a little of something that could have been tears and longing. When they pulled apart at long last, panting, Merlin reached for Arthur's hand.

"Do you want to…"

"Yes," Arthur said, very quickly. "Yes to everything." He leaned over and kissed the corner of Merlin's mouth. "There's been enough waiting, don't you think?"

Merlin pulled Arthur into the bedroom and closed the blinds, and Arthur's knuckles grazed Merlin's bare skin as he pulled his t-shirt off, raising goosebumps along Merlin's sides.

Impatient, Merlin let his magic take care of their remaining clothes, making Arthur laugh breathlessly in surprise. The soft, wet slide of Merlin's tongue along Arthur's collarbone was met with a moan. It was strange to let his hands and mouth explore Arthur's body that he knew so well and still not at all.

"You're less skinny than you used to be," Arthur murmured with his lips against Merlin's hipbone. "That's good."

Then they stopped talking because Arthur's mouth and tongue were busy doing wonderful things to Merlin's cock, and Merlin's mouth went slack with pleasure as his hips lifted from the bed and his fingers scrunched up the sheets.

"Your mouth does this thing when you smile," Arthur said later, as they lay in sweat-damp sheets watching the afternoon light turn to gold and begin to fade. "This thing where one corner of it goes up and the other kind of down. I've always loved that."

Merlin leaned over and kissed him. "And I always knew you had a soppy streak."

Instead of hitting him with a pillow as Merlin had expected, Arthur only said quietly: "I've earned a little soppiness, don't you think?"

Merlin lay back down with his head on Arthur's shoulder. "Yes, you have." It was confession time. "My turn, then. Before I remembered about you, about us, I was worried there was something wrong with me, that I couldn't... that I didn't… But of course I was only waiting for you. It's always been you."

Words felt so small. His love for Arthur was deeper than the ages.

The silence after that statement, no less soppy than Arthur's, lasted so long that Merlin was getting nervous, but then Arthur turned and took Merlin's face in his hands, and his kiss was so gentle and so unexpectedly sweet that tears burned Merlin's eyes.

"I don't know why we're here," Arthur said as he laid back down against the pillow, his hair catching the last of the fading sun so beautifully that Merlin had to kiss it, "but I do know one thing."

"What?"

"That until we find out, I'm more than happy to spend all my free time doing this. We have to make up for lost time. A good deal of lost time."

He pulled Merlin down to him, on top of him, and ground his hips up so there'd be no mistaking what _this_ meant. And Merlin had no objections.


End file.
